


Careful with that Light

by So_Ill_Continue



Series: Shiro, Alive [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (could also be read as pre-slash), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Globetrotter Shiro (Voltron), Platonic Relationships, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Starvation, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25286284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/So_Ill_Continue/pseuds/So_Ill_Continue
Summary: Shiro shares and gains a little more humanity on the way.Matt’s a stubborn guy, but starvation does strange things to people, and it seems like one almost-denial is all he can take. Eager fingers pluck the strips from Shiro’s palm and the head of the first is in his mouth almost too fast to see. Shiro watches Matt’s face melt around the tender meat, sees him struggle between gulping it down and savoring the sensation of real food in his mouth. He moans a little in the back of his throat, although Shiro’s not sure he even notices the sound.
Relationships: Matt Holt & Shiro
Series: Shiro, Alive [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809898
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	Careful with that Light

**Author's Note:**

> Reading the prior work in this series is not required, but for full context and enjoyment, please read _Like a Grasping Soul_ first.

When Shiro sits in front of Matt to produce two long strips of meat from the grimy sleeves of his prisoner jumpsuit, his friend looks like someone has slapped him. His eyes flicker from Shiro’s face to his sleeves to the food in his hand, and Shiro can see his nose working as it’s tickled by the earthy aroma. His hands flutter, reaching before jerking back and tightening themselves into fists. He licks his lips, bites his cheek, works his throat. When he’s finally able to speak, he asks, voice a croak:

“How?”

Internally, Shiro cringes at the question. Overstuffed as he is, he’s already stumbling under the weight of his guilt and shame. He’s agreed to maim for food, practically begged for the opportunity to do so. He feels like a monster. He feels like a whore.

“Have it,” he says instead, carefully neutral as he ignores the vicious instinct to gobble up the last scraps of his meal. He’s already uncomfortably full – bloated with it, really - but he could probably eat these pieces too without throwing it all back up. He could give his body just a bit more to keep fighting with. Could give his mouth something delicious to chew on instead of mush and sand.

But something better should come out of this than a simple buckling to his own greed. Something more human. And he looks at Matt sitting in front of him with sunken eyes and boney limbs and thinks that this is it.

The words land like a blow, and Matt flinches under them. Beneath greasy tawny bangs, his face screws up into something painful as he bites out: “ _That’s your food_.”

It’s not quite a refusal, but it’s still close. It’s better than Shiro had done, and Matt doesn’t even have to shatter someone’s ankles for the privilege.

Shiro clenches his jaw, both to shake away the thought and because yeah, it _is_ his. He could eat it now, right in front of Matt, and no one could say jack shit about it. Instead, he softens his voice and tries again. “Just take it, alright? You need it.”

Matt’s a stubborn guy, but starvation does strange things to people, and it seems like one almost-denial is all he can take. Eager fingers pluck the strips from Shiro’s palm and the head of the first is in his mouth almost too fast to see. Shiro watches Matt’s face melt around the tender meat, sees him struggle between gulping it down and savoring the sensation of real food in his mouth. He moans a little in the back of his throat, although Shiro’s not sure he even notices the sound.

In a moment the first piece is gone and Matt pauses to lick his greasy lips and fingers. But he doesn’t start in on the second cut like Shiro would have. Instead, he shoots his friend a piercing look, eyebrows drawn and lips pursed. “You didn’t answer my question. Did you steal it? Should I be worried? If there’s any chance we could get smoked for this I want to know now.”

Shiro huffs, although internally Matt’s persistence sets his nerves on edge. “I didn’t steal it. It was a-” _bribe_. “Gift. Good, right?”

Matt stares at him, seemingly torn between calling out the misdirection and laughing in his face. Eventually, he more or less combines the two. “Yeah, it’s _good,_ Shiro!” he cackles, tone clearly questioning Shiro’s intelligence or motive or both. “It’s fucking _fantastic_ , the best thing since sliced bread. Where the fuck d’you get it?”

Shiro scowls, eyeing the meat just hungrily enough for Matt to clutch it a little tighter, pulling it toward his chest. He needs an answer, but he is too much of a coward to admit the reality, that he eagerly licked the hand of the first bastard to offer him a crust of bread. He doesn’t want to see the look on Matt’s face; he already feels dirty enough. “An officer gave it to me, alright?” Shiro snaps after a lengthy pause. “Some shiny who liked the fight and wanted to give his favorite dog a treat.”

The lie’s plausible and, more importantly, just shameful enough that it does the trick. Matt’s face immediately eases, eyes melting from hardened amber to soft honey. “Hey, don’t be stupid,” he chides, although his voice is irritatingly gentle. “I just wanted to- if we were gonna get- I mean-” He huffs and chews his swollen lower lip with vexed vigor. “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Matt looks down at his remaining food, dirtied by two sets of hands but still leagues ahead of their typical cuisine, before reluctantly extending it to Shiro. Shiro watches the hand shake. “You…you can have the last part, if you want?”

New guilt flares hot and heavy in Shiro’s gut, because now Matt’s feeling shitty and that’s his fault, but he still can’t stop the cool relief that comes with Matt’s yield. Secret safe, he allows himself a small smile even as he shakes his head. “I already said I wanted you to have it, and I meant it.”

There’s a long pause before Matt replies, oh so softly, “Okay.” He still sounds apologetic and small and that pulls the corners of Shiro’s lips downward like a physical weight. But then he takes another bite, this one barely more than a nibble, flicks a mischievous look at Shiro and snorts. “It doesn’t taste like chicken.”

The comment startles a laugh out of Shiro, and God, how does Matt do that? How does he manage that sort of comeback in a place like this? Shiro feels his eyes gleam playfully and he grins. Honestly, he probably looks a little manic. “No, it really doesn’t. I was thinking some sort of sweet beef?”

Now Matt’s really smiling, open and genuine, not the harsh cackling of before. His eyebrows raise and he looks like he’s about to make a smart remark when he visibly remembers Shiro’s heritage, and that he’s probably referencing something from Japan (or any number of eastern countries he’s lived in) rather than something made up. His features school themselves, but the damage is already done.

Shiro smirks. Leaning forward until he’s looming over his smaller friend, he needles, “Forgot I’m not American?” It’s a familiar conversation, has to be, with Matt’s big mouth and expressive face and squarely red-white-and-blue, greatest-nation-on-Earth, shining-city-on-the-hill upbringing.

Matt huffs, red dusting his cheeks, although there’s still that smile tugging at the edges of his lips. “First of all,” he begins, raising one haughty finger in the air, “that makes me sound like a bigot. I forgot you didn’t _grow up in the U.S.”_

“Mmhmm,” Shiro hums noncommittally, sitting back on his heels. The metal floor’s a little hard on his knees and shins, but it’s still the position he’s most comfortable in.

Matt utterly ignores him. “Second of all,” he continues, another finger joining the first, “you’re naturalized, so you’re just as American as I am, you nativist bastard, you.” He pauses, munches again on what’s left of the meat, and adds, “Plus, sweet beef sounds funny anyways.”

Shiro snorts, particularly at the “nativist” quip. God, when’s the last time they joked around like this? Certainly since their capture, but it’s still been a while. It’s nice, like chilled lemonade on a sunny day. Refreshing in a way he can’t quite articulate. “It really doesn’t. And I spoke with a British accent for the first three years you knew me. So, not very American.”

Matt laughs again, although someone less charitable might call it a giggle. “You were so _posh,”_ he giggles, affecting a cartoonishly British accent for the last word. “Saying things like ‘lift’ and ‘torch’ and- oh God, you asked me for a rubber!” Shiro feels his face warm as Matt theatrically clutches his sides. “A fucking rubber! In front of God and everyone!”

“I meant eraser,” Shiro murmurs. The heat’s creeping across his ears now, and dammit, Matt wasn’t supposed to remember that. “And I’m pretty sure Professor Montgomery spent some time in England, so it’s not as big of a deal as you like to pretend.”

Matt barrels on, ignoring his extremely astute point entirely. “What were your words?” he gasps, and Lord, are those tears forming in his eyes? The ridiculous accent returns. “‘My good Sir, would you be so kind as to-’”

“Oh, come on,” Shiro interrupts, rolling his eyes hard. His ears are definitely burning at this point, and he’s a little amazed that Matt hasn’t pointed it out yet. He’s keenly aware of how bright his blushes are. “I wasn’t from a fucking Dicken’s novel. It was just: ‘Have you got a rubber?’ which is perfectly normal, by the way.”

“A fucking rubber!” Matt repeats, the stupid genius, as he slaps his palms on his thighs. “Oh Christ, buttercup, I’d almost forgotten about that. _Thank you_.” He sniffles, then dramatically swipes tears from his eyes.

Shiro rolls his eyes again, hard enough that he’s positive Matt notices. Then he rises, shuffling on his knees to rest against the wall beside Matt. He scoops up their single discarded blanket on the way, resting it across both of their laps. The ship’s temperature seems to be set for the comfort of their captures, and since they all have thick violet coats to keep them warm, that means it’s decidedly north of chilly. Shiro’s already getting uncomfortable prickles across his skin from sitting on the cold ground so long, and it’ll take either pacing or shared body heat to fend the feeling off.

Matt wordlessly snuggles in, nibbling again on his strip. It’s almost halfway gone now and Shiro catches the forlorn look Matt sends its way. He’s heavy and warm against Shiro’s side, overgrown hair itching the side of his neck. Shiro wraps an arm around Matt’s shoulders, catching the corner of the blanket in his hand to pin it behind Matt’s back. He does the same on his own side, too.

They’d never been two for cuddling like this, not in the eight years spent together at the Garrison nor the five months with Commander Holt aboard the _Erudite V._ But it’s what’s comfortable in this cold cell and what’s comforting in this cruel prison and so neither deny themselves the practice.

For that, at least, Shiro can be grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you like this work and want to see more in the series, please consider leaving a comment. Kudos and bookmarks are also greatly appreciated.


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